


Key

by agreylady



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:50:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agreylady/pseuds/agreylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Today is the day". Sherry Birkin snippet, immediately pre-RE6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Key

**Author's Note:**

> A pointless Sherry snippet because I never finish anything. 
> 
> Warning: foul language. Otherwise pretty PG.

The ringing starts at six in the morning. The temptation slithers in: should she let it ring? Her bed radiates warmth, trapped under the covers, under her skin. She reaches out an arm to still her phone’s alarm, to feel the pinpricks of cold. 

_It’s your job_ , she reminds herself, and, slowly, she rises. 

Outside she can hear a shout, some truck moving. But she lingers, rolling her neck, cracking her shoulders. Without thinking, she realizes that her mouth has clenched, and she does her best to unclench it. 

She looks back down at the black screen of her phone. She holds down the button until it lights up, then checks her email. Nothing new. She sends Simmons a brief report – twice a day, to keep in check - he cares, in his own way – and then puts it down. 

Still, she can’t get up. 

Everything about the room is bare and dingy. It reminds her of her rooms in quarantine, a long time ago, although less clinical. 

With a twinge, she slides out of bed and onto her cold feet. 

She showers (the water is cold), brushes her teeth (the water is foul), and slips on new underwear. She takes her pills. 

She rubs a place in the steam and stares at herself in the mirror. She makes a face, but it doesn’t cheer her. 

Cold seeps in from under the door. Her space heater isn’t doing much to help, and the central heating here is… far from adequate. 

Her phone vibrates. _Glad to hear you’re well. Today._

She reads the message twice. She stares into the distance; she clutches the phone to her chest, where she can’t see the screen, maybe, or to keep her inexhaustible heart from falling out, where, certainly, it would keep pumping. 

Blood would go everywhere. 

When she’s calmed herself down, she rifles through her suitcase and slips on a pair of leggings, some thick socks, and a top. After some consideration, she sticks a taser in her messenger bag and leaves, locking up after herself. She can hear the clamor of life, now, where she couldn’t before. Somewhere is a woman shouting at her children to get ready for school. She hears some men bellowing outside and then fading out. 

When the cold air hits her, she can’t breath for a moment. A man in a skull cap laughs at her. She tries not to be jealous of the cigarette warming his hands. 

What would happen, if she smoked? That’s a new one. She’s surprised that she wasn’t forced to try it. She can imagine it in her mind’s eye: men in white coats scrambling to provide a small, blonde child with box after box of cigarettes. 

The man with the skull cap is trying to get her attention. “Hey- hey- American girl-“ his English fails him, and he reaches for his own tongue. _You got money?_

His voice is rude, and his eyes are taking her in, up and down. She shakes her head. 

He smiles and says something else. 

_Happy Christmas, cunt._

She smiles right back. 

He doesn't know that she understands. 

The café down the street has bitter coffee and even bitterer sweets, but at least everything is warm and she doesn’t have to cook. She has no will to seek out finer dining – has, in fact, lived on their thin soups for exactly forty-two days. 

Her feet crunch in the grey sleet; the new snowflakes, the ones outside her window that she ignored, are so fluffy and innocent that they stick hopefully to her eyelashes. 

In the café, she shakes off her hood. Her hair is already wet. It’s warm in here, which is one of its more attractive qualities. 

She scans the menu, bleary-eyed. When the door jingles, she looks up. A man enters. 

But he’s not her man-

(maybe that was badly worded)

-Jake Muller. 

She mouths his name. _Jake._

_Jake Muller._

_Jake Wesker._

The surname is strange on her tongue, like _Dad_ or _Mom_. Or _Raccoon City_. 

A key, unlocking a part of her she thought she’d put down for good.


End file.
